


to the grave

by marigolds



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Dark, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Louis may or may not seem a bit mad, Russian Roulette, also please note that this fic is incredibly dark, and could be a little triggering?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-31
Updated: 2013-12-31
Packaged: 2018-01-06 20:49:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,484
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1111366
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/marigolds/pseuds/marigolds
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“if zayn shot himself in the head,” louis begins thoughtfully, “it’s because he thinks too much.” he speaks as if this is perfectly normal situation, as if he doesn’t have a gun cocked and pointed at his own skull. “and harry would shoot himself in the heart, because he loves too much. and me...” his eyes light up. “i’d put the gun in my mouth, because i talk too much.” || the boys play russian roulette.</p>
            </blockquote>





	to the grave

**Author's Note:**

> Written because of [this prompt](http://1dangstmeme.livejournal.com/996.html?thread=449508#t449508) on the one direction angst meme. This fic could contain triggers for some of you, so please, read with caution! I also wanted to apologize for how, um, off Louis is in this fic. I doubt he'd actually act like I've portrayed him. This is unedited, so please excuse any mistakes!

it is maybe very stupid of them to play a game like this, because it borders on  _not a game_ , straddles the line of dangerous and bloody  _insane_. they’re sitting on the floor of the bungalow, circled around the coffee table in front of the television that no one is watching.

in the center of the table, there is an 1873 cattleman pistol with a walnut grip and a nickel barrel.

“are you --  _sure_  it’s not loaded?” liam asks, eyeing it suspiciously, as if it will go off without being touched. he hadn’t been the most uncertain about the idea at first -- that prize had inevitably gone to niall -- but now he looks as though he’s second-guessing, over-thinking the way that he does.

“it’s  _not_  loaded,” zayn says, rolling his eyes and tapping the ashes of his cigarette over a tray at the corner of the table. “we wouldn’t play russian roulette with a loaded gun, idiot.”

“i dunno, zayn,” louis quips, waggling his eyebrows. “might make it more exciting, if there was a bullet lodged in there.”

liam shoots him a warning glance, which louis patently ignores in favor of elbowing harry in the ribs and grinning when he winces, gives him the attention he wants.

“you’re not scared, are you, haz?” he asks, and it’s -- obvious that he’s baiting him, egging them all on by picking at their shared hesitation. louis flutters his eyelashes, dropping his chin on harry’s shoulder. “you’re not gonna be a girl about it, are you, haz? you’re gonna be a  _man_.”

harry clenches his jaw, doesn’t say anything. annoyed, louis pulls away, turning to niall on his other side.

“and you, niall?” he questions, voice drizzly sweet. “how d’you fair?”

“we should really have a fucking pint b’forehand, hadn’t we?” he replies, stilted by nervous laughter. he keeps tugging at the hem of his shirt, drumming his fingers on the table and scratching his nails over the hardwood.

“hm, yeah. it might calm you down,” louis concedes. when niall perks up a little, no doubt because of the mention of booze, louis tuts, shutting him down almost immediately. “but it’s more fun when everyone’s a bit on edge, i think. i want everyone to be afraid.” louis says this in a way that almost sounds as if he is joking, and perhaps the boys -- pretend that he is. they hope, they hope, they hope.

harry closes his eyes; recites a quick prayer.

“so?” zayn breathes the word out with smoke, stubbing out what’s left of the fag in the ashtray. “are we doing this or not?” he reaches for the pistol in the middle of the table, only for liam to grab his wrist, fingers clenched so tightly that his nails bite into his skin. “fucking hell,” zayn breathes, glaring.

“just -- hold on,” liam says, letting zayn go. “can we -- check it, louis,” liam insists. it sounds like begging.

“liam,” louis groans. “there’s nothing in the fucking cylinder, jesus. stop being a goddamn  _puss_  -- ”

harry reaches over the table, taking the gun in hand and flicking the compartment open. “look,” he says, voice low for reasons the others can’t seem to place. he turns the gun so that the others can clearly see that there’s nothing inside. “okay?”

liam swallows, nodding once, crisp. “sorry,” he apologizes.

“alright,” zayn says, stretching his arm across the table to take the pistol from harry’s hand. he holds it for a moment in his palms; weighs it. it’s lighter than it would be with bullets stacked in it. he presses the muzzle to his own temple, breathing a laugh at liam’s sharp intake of breath. “you’re proper scared, aren’t you, li?” he mocks.

“it’s.” liam turns away, staring intently at the patterns in the hardwood. “it’s a bit jarring, s’all. to see you with a gun to your head. it’s weird.”

“it’s not loaded,” niall offers from across the table, lifting his lips, but -- not quite smiling. there is something about the air that is very heavy, weighing it down.

“ _yeah_ ,” zayn drawls, chuckling as he does a little dance, doing jazz fingers with his free hand. “gonna blow me brains out.”

“that’s dark, mate,” louis laughs, clapping his knee. harry takes a breath that rattles his ribs. liam hasn’t exhaled for thirty seconds, and his heart is pounding so loudly in his own ears that he is sure that the others can hear it.

zayn pretends to cry. “gonna kill myself,” he says, voice shaking as if -- as if it is real. “i hate my life, everything sucks, damn it all to hell,” he sobs, and then he pulls the trigger. “damn it -- ”  _click_ , “ -- all -- ”  _click_ , “ -- to hell.”  _click, click, click_. he begins to laugh.

“that’s fucking sick, dude,” niall whispers, but it is lost in his palm.

zayn is cackling a bit madly when he drops the gun back onto the table with such force that even louis tenses. “jesus christ, your  _faces_ ,” zayn manages, barely, through his grin.

“very moving,” louis applauds, smirking. “almost thought you were serious. a real talent, you are.”

zayn bows his head in gratitude. “thank you, thank you. i couldn’t have done it without all of you. it’s the little people, everyone!” he throws his head back in more laughter, though the joke seems to be lost on the others.

“alright,” louis says, voice going serious. “who’s next?” he looks around the table, and then lets his gaze settle on harry. “hazza?” he suggests, lifting the gun between his thumb and index finger, waving it back and forth as if it is a treat.

harry takes a breath, looking between louis and the gun, but eventually reaches for it. for harry, holding a gun is much like holding something dead and bleeding, like something he wants to get rid of before the death infects him, too. harry bites down onto the piece of gum in his mouth, lifts it carefully to his head, as if it will trigger.

“where’s it gonna be, haz?” louis asks, locking eyes with him. there is something vaguely romantic in the gesture. (harry feels as if he is being torn to shreds, briefly wishes that the gun was loaded so it would end. he needs it to end, sometimes.)

“what -- d’you mean?” harry breathes, closing his eyes for a moment to avoid looking at louis.

“i mean,” louis says, reaching to tug at harry’s wrist, guiding his hand lower. “you seem like the type to shoot yourself here.” he stops when the barrel of the gun is nestled against harry’s heart.

“ _jesus_ ,” liam breathes, rubbing his temples.

“...here?” harry asks, catching louis’ eye. louis hesitates, breathing stilted.

“because,” louis hedges, his voice kinder than it has been all night, “you love too much.”

 _click_. louis trembles, but harry’s hand is steady.

“still alive,” harry jokes, reaching past louis to set the pistol on the table. he shrugs his shoulders, shooting the others a lopsided grin. “surprise.”

“y’know, even though it’s not loaded,” niall says, chuckling in a way that is beginning to border on hysterical. “s’bit shocking to, like. hear it.”

“a bit?” liam questions sagely.

“li’s about to have a heart attack,” louis laughs, gripping the gun’s hand and using the leverage to slide it across the table to him. “so since you may die before you get to play, it’s your turn.”

“fuck off,” liam spits, shoving the pistol away. “i’m not doing it.”

“because you’re a pussy?” louis asks, cocking his head innocently, even if they all know there is nothing innocent about this devil.

“because i don’t --  _get off_  on watching my best friends pretend to shoot themselves,” liam snaps.

“no one’s got their prick out, do they?” louis taunts, arching a brow. he turns to zayn. “you?”

“nope,” zayn answers. “haven’t even gotten a twinge down there.”

“not even a  _twinge_ ,” louis repeats, tutting. he leans over the table, fingertips pressing against the handle of the pistol until it begins to slide to liam once more. “go on, then. we all know it’s not loaded. there’s nothing to be afraid of.”

liam exhales sharply, glaring at louis and then at the gun, as if he can make both change their minds. he finally releases a sigh that sounds like defeat, and louis smiles. (louis is so kind until he wants something. when he  _wants_  he is domineering and unnervingly harsh and he is frightening, to liam.) when liam takes hold of the walnut handle, his grip is firm so he can maintain control.

“you’d shoot yourself with your eyes closed,” louis decides, taunting.

“fuck  _off_ ,” liam hisses, his knuckles going white. he lifts his index finger to the trigger, rests it there gently.

“it’s not that scary,” zayn says from next to him, rolling his eyes. he keeps toying with the lid of his cigarette box as if he’s considering having another. “i thought you were the adventurous one.”

“i don’t like this game.” liam takes a steadying breath, closes his eyes and squeezes the trigger. when it clicks, liam flinches. “f-fuck,” he mutters, sending the gun clattering to the table. he thinks his heart stopped when he shot himself without a bullet.

“li’s about to have a fucking panic attack,” louis laughs, taking the gun in-hand and turning his attention to niall, who has gone deathly quiet and a pale green. “niall’d never shoot himself,” louis says to the room at large, grinning as he points the gun in niall’s direction. “would you, niall?”

“it’s just a game,” niall tries, his smile uncomfortable.

“please, niall,” louis scoffs but then smiles fondly, eyes crinkling. “you couldn’t hurt a fly, gentle boy.”

“you’re getting a real kick out of this,” zayn muses, having forgone the cigarette. he leans back on his palms. “give it to him. it’s russian roulette, not a murder.”

“i’m telling you,” louis insists, turning to give zayn a look. “niall would never shoot himself.”

“neither would i,” zayn argues, laughing somewhere in the back of his throat.

louis purses his lips, then says, “sure you would.” he turns to harry -- “and so would you,” -- then to liam, who scoffs when louis says, “and you, too.”

he turns back to niall, studying him. “but not niall,” he decides.

he pulls the trigger.

“ _jesus_ ,” niall exhales, having put up his hands. he lowers them with a hesitant chuckle, then turns to liam. “it is scary,” he says. he looks to louis. “you’re scary with that thing. like a fucking serial killer or summat.”

“gee,” louis says, rolling his eyes. “thank you, niall.” he sits back on his haunches, examining the pistol still in hand. “i’d never point a gun at you if there was a bullet in it,” louis murmurs, quietly, after a long silence. “i’d never kill anyone.” he sets the gun aside, briefly, digging through his pockets for something.

beside him, harry watches warily, suddenly very frightened. “what are you -- ?” he begins to ask, cutting himself short with a breath when louis pulls a handful of bullets from his jeans and smacks them on the table, where they scatter, one rolling off the edge and into louis’ lap.

he grins, picking it up. “that’s the one, then.” he flicks open the cylinder, feeding the single bullet into one of the six openings before snapping it closed.

“what are you doing?” harry demands, robotically crowding up against louis as he reaches for his arm to hold it steady. “louis, what the  _fuck_?”

“shut up, jesus,” louis laughs. “s’more exciting this way. what’s the fun in playing if you know the outcome?”

“louis -- stop,” liam breathes from across the table. “fucking stop. this isn’t funny.”

“who’s laughing?” louis asks, suddenly going very serious. “really, liam. stop being such a  _dad_.”

“lou,” zayn tries, calmly. “lou, i don’t think that’s a good idea.”

“of course it’s not,” louis scoffs, reaching up to spin the cylinder when harry’s grip slackens, slightly, in surprise. “but when have i ever had good ideas?” he presses the barrel to his head.

“louis, fucking  _stop_ ,” harry demands, almost pleading. “don’t do that.”

“do you really think  _i’m_  going to die?” louis asks. “me? there’s a one in six chance a bullet will come out, and you think i’m going to -- to kick the goddamn bucket.” he snorts. “i’d like to think i have better luck than that.” he starts to move away from harry, but he’s grabbed.

“stop it,” harry says, voice breaking. “you’re scaring us.”

louis tuts. “see, haz?” with his free hand, he prods the skin over harry’s heart. “you care too much.”

“louis,” liam growls, standing. “we all care. don’t you fucking dare do this to us.”

“oh my  _god_ ,” louis laughs, then abruptly covers his mouth. “oh, sorry. i guess i said i wasn’t laughing.” he jerks away from harry, standing as well. he takes a few steps backwards, until his back hits the wall, and lifts the gun to his head. “jesus, it’s like you lot have no  _faith_.”

niall clutches his stomach as if he is about to vomit. zayn stands carefully while harry lifts himself by what looks like puppet strings, all jagged and unrealistic movements. niall covers his face with his hands, says, “louis, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t, don’t,” over and over again. pleads for it.

“how would i kill myself?” louis asks, grinning like a fox.

“ _stop it_ ,” harry says, desperate, now.

“jesus,” liam hisses. he closes his eyes. “jesus,” he says again, speaking to someone outside the room.

“if zayn shot himself in the head,” louis begins thoughtfully, “it’s because he thinks too much.” he speaks as if this is perfectly normal situation, as if he doesn’t have a gun cocked and pointed at his own skull. “and harry would shoot himself in the heart, because he loves too much. and me...” his eyes light up. “i’d put the gun in my mouth, because i talk too much.”

zayn clenches his jaw, liam clenches his fists. niall begins to hyperventilate. harry is looking at louis, straight into his eyes, and there is something about it that is romantic more than it is sad, more than it is scary. louis pushes the barrel of the gun between his lips.

“louis!” harry shouts.

louis begins to laugh, pulls the pistol from his mouth. “jesus, sorry,” he says through chuckles. “i was just thinking -- remember when we were talking about how no one was getting off on this?” he looks to liam, eyes sparkling. “putting that was literally like having a cock in my mouth, fuck. anyone turned on now? any twinges?” he winks at zayn, who stares.

“lou...” he says, and zayn’s voice is never shaky, but. it tremors.

“what? are my jokes really in that bad of taste?” louis pouts, but recovers quickly, shrugging his shoulders and pushing the barrel back into his mouth.

“lou -- !”

he pulls the trigger.


End file.
